Dragged kicking and screaming into the back of an ambulance, crawling along on my hands and knees or passed out on some distant, lonely trail in the pouring rain: that is always how I imagined my first DNF would be.
In reality, I walked up to a UTMB race official at the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc (UTMB) and handed over my number with a shrug of the shoulders and an awkward smile. The body was still more than willing, it was the mind that had ceased to push forward, the heart that had lost the desire to continue.
I have stumbled across Greece, vomiting every 15 minutes for 24 hours, to finish a race. In my first 24-hour race, I spent the last four hours limping around a one kilometre loop, crying on the back straight so that my support could not see, but never stopping. At the UTMB last year, I marched the final 30km convinced that the soles of my feet had detached in a bloody mess and soaked into my socks, but I always knew I would finish.
The UTMB is a tough race, that is not in doubt. With 170km and 10,000m of up and down, it can reduce many to a crumbled heap – and the best ultra and mountain runners in the world have fallen at Mont Blanc’s feet. This year saw over 900 of 2,300 entrants pulling the plug. 2015 was a tough year.
In a race as big as this, we all go into dark places. But what made mine so different from any I have been to before? Were they really darker or was it how I saw them that was different?
This year, I entered the race to compete. All summer was spent in Chamonix, on the trails and hills that the race would traverse. Physically and emotionally a lot had been invested in this one race. Friends’ weddings had been missed, and I was hoping to push for a new sponsor on the back of a good result. It meant an awful lot to me.
On the first descent, I lost some skin on my toes – a stupid footwear decision entirely of my own doing – and filled my socks with blood. This hurt a fair bit, but what was worse was changing shoes at the first checkpoint and thinking my race was over. It wasn’t.
Continuing was painful but possible. Moving uphill was fine and downhill, although uncomfortable, wasn’t too much slower. The show must go on, I thought. In the end it was my injured feet that convinced me to stop, yet I don’t know if they were the underlying reason at all.
My race was not going to plan. I could not keep up with the people around me on the uphills and, while some dropped back, some overtook, too. I had come to compete and every hill was making this less likely.
A technical section saw me lose a number of places and frustrations grew, my weaknesses exposed by the mountains and my top-10 finish seemingly slipping from my grasp. Four months I had run around this mountain – but what is four months in the grand scheme of things when race winners had been born and bred in these environs.
Finishing strong is my forte, but that day my mind was not so keen. It told me the effort was worthless, that the race had been lost long ago when I spent my youth on the streets of London or when I boozed my way through university. “You are out of your depth,” it said, cursing me for even thinking that I could compete.
Normally I would ignore these cruel voices, pushing forward and knowing that they, like the mountains ahead, were surmountable. But they had their day.
My body was willing to go on – my legs were happy prancing along on painful feet – but the feet themselves gave me an excuse that I was all too willing to accept. The devil offered to halt the torture if I stopped. All I had to do was hand in my number and my soul. What a simple task.
After the race, I told friends and family about the pain in my feet, that it was all too much. Deep down I don’t believe that. Deep down I think I stopped because I wasn’t doing as well as I had hoped, like a spoilt child not getting what he wanted. I wanted to be in the top 10 at the finish. I want to win this race one day. I am not ready yet, but this day is another step in my journey.
For days I blamed the course – it had been altered to something that did not suit me with more technical sections. It wasn’t my fault that I would never podium at UTMB, but the organisers … That pointless self pity didn’t last long. You only have yourself to blame.
I thought it would be on two bloody stumps that I was dragged from a race, unconscious or screaming, but really I just wasn’t happy on the trail, not finding the usual joy in my favourite pastime. The higher my ambitions come, the more I expect of myself. I will be back next year. My ambitions will be the same, but I will be better.
We all have dark places that we visit but they all come to an end. There is always light at the end of the tunnel, though this time I escaped through a hole in the side. I’m still not sure if this was the easy way out, because what is four to five hours of discomfort compared to days and weeks of self-doubt?
In the end, I think I made the right decision, whatever reason I gave myself. My first DNF has already made me a stronger athlete; may it not be my last.
Source: Read Full Article